


Criminal Masterminds

by Liara_90



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Criminal Masterminds, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Gun Violence, Novelization, One Shot, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 15:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: Nobody thought they'd make it this far. And yet here they stood.A novelization of the finale of the Pacific Standard Heist. Set in-universe, closely follows the events of the video.





	Criminal Masterminds

_Accompanies the following video_ :

* * *

They looked like proper soldiers.

That was the first thought that entered Free’s head as he strolled into the condominium that was serving as their base of operations. Once upon a time - a matter of weeks, not the years it felt like - they’d committed all manner of felonies in nothing more than their street clothes and ski masks from the dollar store. Their criminal spree had evolved them into something else, though, no jovial humor could conceal that. Gone were the colorful purples and oranges; sports jackets had been exchanged for layers of Kevlar in tactical matte black. Runners and sneakers made way for combat boots with steel toes. Their pockets were now filled with cables and grenades instead of gum wrappers and loose change.

Yeah, thing were different now.

Ryan Haywood - or simply “ _The Vagabond_ ”, according to the FBI’s Most Wanted - stood facing their war wall: a whiteboard to his right and a high-resolution map of Los Santos to his left. When they’d first met, Gavin had thought Haywood to be certifiably insane, a blood-thirsty psychopath with a fetish for face paint... 

...He _still_ thought that way, admittedly, but now he knew there was more to Haywood than the kids’ paints suggested. Those eyes - which had watched a thousand men breathe their last breaths - concealed more than animalistic fury. There was a cold and calculating glimmer to them, portals to a raw intelligence above and beyond your average mass murderer.

The Vagabond walked them through the plan. They’d already overruled Mr. Lester Crest when it came to the operational details of the heist. Lester had his uses, to be sure, but it’d take a proper _git_ to think that parachuting off a bridge was the sanest course of action. So they were re-planning on short notice, running through Park Service maps of Raton Canyon to figure out just how the _bloody hell_ they were going to get through it on purloined bikes...

“...Can I be _backup_?” Free half-joked, as Haywood ran through their assignments. Jones and Dooley shot him vaguely-derisive glances, causing Free to blush a pale rose. He’d gone through most of this crime spree feeling like the weakest link, the loose end, the fourth wheel on a perfectly-good tricycle. _The Odd Man Out_. By his own admission he wasn’t a hardened criminal like the rest of them were, preferring conniving and tomfoolery to violence and terror. There was no denying that he was talented - who else among them could fly four categories of aircraft, after all? - but bursting through the front door of a downtown bank was well… _not his cup of tea_ , if he had to be criminally English about it.

Haywood ended up pairing him off with Jones on crowd control duty. It was the logical match-up, everyone agreed wordlessly. Jones and Free had known each other longer than everyone else, back when Free had still been a ‘fresh of the Boeing’ Brit in the alienness of the American Southwest. Trust was the most expensive commodity in the underground world of organized crime, and Jones and Free had it in spades. Complete and implicit. And if there was anyone who would make sure Free got through this insane murder-spree of a heist alive, it would be the Jersey Devil himself.

They agreed beforehand on the split of their take: 40% for the Vagabond, and 20% for his three associates. Given the size of the haul they were planning to make it seemed more than equitable - doubly, given that the Vagabond had done most of the murdering. By his own admission, Free wasn’t in it for the money. Oh, money was _nice_ and all - he certainly made it hand over fist - but the single-minded pursuit of it had never been his style. He did what he did because he did what he loved.

And somehow, that just happened to put him in a position where he’d be storming a bank with three heavily-armed men in a couple of minutes.

The elevator ride down was as awkward as every other elevator ride in his life. Mostly, Free just listened as his co-workers discussed the relative merits of hijacking a N.O.O.S.E. van on the way out. While nobody _relished_ getting into a gunfight with commandos of American law enforcement, the prospect of getting their hands on something more armored than a motorcycle was certainly a _tempting_ one.

The morning air was cool as they exited the building. The weather app on his phone read 17 Celsius - 60-something _Fahrenheit_ , as the Yanks insisted - which was good, because he was already sweltering in his body armor. He’d never quite gotten used to the warm summers of the American Pacific Coast. At least there was a nice breeze from the beach, cooling his skin and-

“- _Where’s my helmet_?”

“Put it on your _fucking_ head,” Jones swore. Somehow, Free always managed to forget it, and his dirty blonde head stood out like a sore thumb amongst a party of black-helmeted villains.

(He’d forgotten it. Of course he had. Because _that_ wasn’t a bad omen, or anything.)

They piled in the Vagabond’s Karin Kuruma with practised ease, everyone taking the same seats they always did. Though whether it could still fairly be called a Kuruma was an open question - the damn thing had been modified with so many aftermarket parts and armored body plating that it scarcely resembled the Mitsubishi knock-off they’d bought it as.

“ _Ugh_ , I’m going to throw up,” groaned Dooley as they accelerated towards their destination, fiddling listlessly with his rifle.

“No, don’t throw up yet,” Haywood instructed, though whether he was attempting to be reassuring or just protective of the all-leather interior was left ambiguous.

Normally the most rambunctious and carefree among them, the last few jobs had frayed Dooley’s nerves to nothing, the stress afflicting him with paranoia and insomnia in equal measure.

The Vagabond’s usual disregard for traffic laws and passenger comfort probably wasn’t helping his stomach, either.

“Seriously, how the _hell_ do you put on a helmet?” Free wondered aloud, staring helplessly at the Army surplus bucket in his hands.

The Vagabond further depressed the accelerator, trying not to lash out. Because _of course_ the man who could fly a fighter off an aircraft carrier would be baffled by two straps and a buckle.

* * *

“ _Here’s the bank_.”

Haywood did a power-slide with the parking brake, abandoning the Kuruma by the side of the street. He’d already cleaned it with his usual psychopathic focus - stripping the parts of any serial numbers (including the VIN on the engine block), sucking every hair follicle and eyelash from the upholstery. Not that he was particularly worried about being caught - it wasn’t like he had a ‘ _civilian_ ’ identity he needed to protect - but preparation was always key in these things.

(Which was also why there was a small C4 charge taped to the Kuruma’s underbelly. He hated to see it go, but hated to see it impounded even more.)

The walk to the bank - a few yards of downtown Los Santos, in broad daylight - was one of the more surreal moments of the Vagabond’s very surreal life. Their guns were all tucked away inside of shoulder-strapped duffel bags, _true_ , but no one even gave them a second glance. In a city that had not one but _two_ professional paintball leagues, they probably looked like just another group of SEAL Team Six wannabes. Or perhaps cosplayers for a particularly unimaginative anime.

He’d been expecting his crew to bunch up by the door, to wait, to hesitate, to need the final verbal and/or physical kick in the ass to get going. But nobody stopped. Free himself was first through the door, a strangely confident swagger to his step. (He evidently had given up on trying to figure out the helmet). With a wordless nod Haywood set the heist in motion, adrenaline seeping into his veins, more potent than any drug.

The bank’s antechamber was mercifully empty, giving them a few moments to set-up. Free zip-tied the door shut with a pair of police grade plastic handcuffs. It was the kind of thing that would buy them no more than seconds in the face of serious opposition, but might deter a few wayward civilians. Not, again, that the Vagabond was particularly concerned about innocents being caught in the crossfire, but they were just so many _variables_ in a heist that was already complex enough as it was.

(Lester was chattering in his earpiece, but nobody paid him a lick of attention. He evidently hadn’t cottoned on to just how irrelevant he was to them.)

Haywood rounded a corner - whoever was watching the CCTV feeds must have been on their break - and found himself facing the broad-shouldered back of a bank security guard. It was so easy a target that he didn’t even bother drawing his gun, and simply swung at the back of the man’s skull with a punch that could shatter bones-

-he missed.

“ _I missed_!” Haywood shouted, more out of shock than to communicate information. _How_ had he missed? Some part of his brain reasoned the guard must have heard the rustling of fabric, the heavy footfall of his steps, but the combat prowess of an aging rent-a-cop still stunned him momentarily.

He was still shocked when the guard landed a punch on his face, a meaty hand colliding with a cheekbone that had already been broken thrice. The pain was negligible, but the audacity of the attack bought the guard a few more seconds of consciousness...

...Until Haywood knocked the guard out with a single slap across the head, dropping him to the ground like a sack of meat. He was, after all still The Vagabond, and it would take a lot more than a lucky swing to take him down.

Bullets were flying.

_Point-four-five caliber handgun, twenty meters south-southeast._

The shots went wide, shattering marble tiles somewhere far above him, but they echoed in the cavernous bank. Haywood deftly threw himself behind a wall, waiting for his ears to stop ringing. He didn’t need to wait long - Dooley had flanked the guard and beaten him unconscious with typical Bostonian brutality. The panicked shouts of the bank’s patrons were the only thing distracting him now.

_Two down. The rest of Los Santos to go._

* * *

“Crowd Control, you’re on crowd control,” barked Dooley, ignorant or indifferent to his tautology. Neither Free nor Jones commented, though, both men still checking that the safeties on their carbines were _off_.

“I’m placing the thermal charge, watch out!” he half-pleaded, half-yelled, as he knelt down in front of the wrought-iron gate sealing the rest of the bank off from them. His hands shook only slightly as he keyed in the activation sequence, wishing for the life of him that he didn’t have to listen to the nonsensical Anglo-American bickering in his earpiece. The thermite detonated - technically it didn’t _explode_ , just _burned at an extremely high temperature_ \- enveloping him in a cloud of orange smoke. Normally he would’ve backed further away before triggering it, simply out of an abundance of caution, but the time pressure was too great now. Every second wasted was another second for N.O.O.S.E. to swoop in on them like... 

...He didn’t have time to finish the analogy, because the thermite made quick work of the locking mechanism, leaving a white-hot hole in the middle of the gate. He barreled through with reckless abandon, the sweat in his bodysuit already beginning to chafe at his crotch and his armpits.

He - apparently alone - already knew what he was going to do with his share of the money. He was a simple man, but a simple man with very expensive tastes. He liked fast cars, fast boats, and fast planes. Whiskey that’d been aged for a few decades. Cuban cigars actually from Cuba. And with a cool ten million, he could check a _lot_ of items off of his bucket list.

..That he’d finally have enough for a ring and a quiet proposal in the Boston Common was something he didn’t dare voice aloud, even to men he was trusting his life with…

A second lock was burned through, and he and the Vagabond began making their way to the bank’s basement. To the vault. Another hapless security guard rounded the corner, managing to squeeze off a trio of shots square into Dooley’s chest. It didn’t help him - whatever armor they were wearing was some kind of super-secret black ops shit that treated small caliber bullets like BB pellets. It was dangerous to get into the habit of relying on it too much - it still could and _did_ fail, as they’d all seen firsthand - but right now Dooley wasn’t too worried about the customer satisfaction guarantee on the vest. He was worried about how best to slam his fist into the guard’s surprisingly chiseled jawline.

The Vagabond got the next guard, charging at him like a bull, and what a cowed matador the man in his way was. The poor guard didn’t even shoot, paralyzed by fear as Haywood felled him with a haymaker straight out of The Octagon. The guard tried to climb to his feet, bruises already swelling from where Haywood had kicked him, but was backhanded into unconsciousness for his trouble.

“Oh, you bitch-slapped him,” Dooley called out, with typical East Coast bluntness. Then he heard a familiar _chortle_ , his eyes snapping to the source. A source that was supposed to be _covering their six!_ “Gavin get back up there!”

“Go do your job, man!” Haywood repeated for emphasis, though he couldn’t completely conceal the wry amusement in his voice. Dooley knew the Vagabond had something of a fondness for Free’s antics, like an indulgent master and his misbehaving puppy.

“You said cover the stairs,” Free grumbled, exasperated, as he backtracked his way up to the bank’s main floor.

“ _I hate you_ so _much_ ,” came Jones’s voice in their earpieces, matching Free for exasperation.

“You said go on the stairs…”

“Jesus _cover the stairs_ ,” Haywood shouted back over the walkie-talkie.

“The stairs going _up_ ,” Dooley added, for clarity.

Yeah, there was no way he was living to see that honeymoon in the Seychelles at this rate.

* * *

Jones felt his blood pressure rising with each passing second. That was something his doctor had warned him about. He wasn’t particularly _scared_ , but every miscommunication was probably shaving a few weeks off his life. Which, judging by how long he’d been with this crew, meant that if he hit fifty it’d be a minor medical miracle.

Crowd control was easy. Basically:

1\. Have gun

2\. Look scary

3\. Shoot gun whenever people move around too much

It was so easy a plan it was _completely fucking beyond him_ why Free couldn’t stick to it!

Confirmation that things had gone _completely_ to shit came when he saw Free sprinting back _down_ the stairwell to the basement, pursued by two bank security guards, who were firing wildly at his back.

“Kill him!” Jones shouted, even as he was snapping his own rifle to the firing position. The first guard fell in a hail of bullets, a dozen holes perforating his dress shirt where Jones’ rounds had clustered together. He started firing at the second guard without pause, only for a pane of bulletproof glass to save the man from immediate death.

Unfortunately for said guard, the different between ‘ _immediate death_ ’ and ‘ _death at a later time_ ’ turned out to be two, maybe three seconds, Jones might not be have been _quite_ the psychopath the Vagabond was, but he was no less proficient a killer.

Keeping someone (like, for example, Mr. Gavin David Free) alive was, well... 

….that was going to require a different use of his skills.

* * *

Haywood unlocked his notebook - a little handheld thing that he’d modified to run a punishing Gentoo distro - and began running through the step-by-step process to unlock the bank vault. He heard shouts, gunfire, and a body hitting the floor behind him. He didn’t turn from the screen.

A long time ago - so long ago that it felt more like myth than real life - he’d been something of a computer guru. A self-taught jack-of-all-trades, capable of coding and networking and database managing and all the other employable skills you were supposed to put on your résumé. That had been many moons ago indeed, but he still felt a little bit dirty just running an .exe file and calling it a day. Made him feel like the script kiddies he’d mocked mercilessly back when the Internet was still mostly AOL.

He brute-forced the password to unlock the vault - the computer science equivalent of driving a car through a front door to commit a burglary - smiling mostly to himself when he learned that the password was CREAMPIE. An unsupervised IT nerd, no doubt, taking his amusement where he could. The vault door - a twenty-ton monstrosity built by the Mosler Safe Company and capable of surviving a small atomic explosion - swung open on the hinges it was so perfectly balanced upon. Haywood allowed himself a brief sense of satisfaction as he stepped over the threshold.

And there it was.

A _stack_ of cash. There was really no other way to describe it. High-denomination, numerically-sequential bills, hot from the presses of the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, more widely accepted than any other currency in the world. Stacked in neat bundles, Benjamin Franklin staring up at him with that little half-smile of his, just waiting to be taken.

And take he did.

Every handful the equivalent of what a lower-income family took home in a year. And he was taking it hand-over-fist, dropping fat stacks into his waterproof duffel bag. He’d stolen gold before, too, and cash was infinitely preferable. Lightweight, malleable, and you didn’t have to worry about finding a fence.

This was freedom.

* * *

The alarm went off.

Haywood had been waiting for it for some time, knowing that it was inevitable but unsure of the precise timing. It was ultimately irrelevant. Jones and Free had the positions and the hostages to keep the police from ever storming the bank, and the four of them had more than sufficient firepower to punch their way out of what net the police might lay for them.

He was singularly confident in this. It was just a matter of wrangling his accomplices to his mindset.

He barely glanced at the hostages as he made his way back through the bank lobby. A younger, more vengeful Vagabond might have tried to figure out who sounded the alarm - or simply shot a few to convey his displeasure. The thought still floated through his mind, but only fleetingly. Vengeance was a luxury that they didn’t have the time to indulge in.

 _Yet_.

Free, Jones and Dooley were stacked up by the main door of the bank, cradling their rifles, fingers itching over the triggers. He could feel it, too. The adrenaline in his veins, the blood pounding in his ears. The certainty that, yes, there _would_ be violence. Every muscle was begging to be put to use, barely able to put off the cathartic release of the first punch, the first shots.

With a KA-BAR combat knife - a prize he’d taken from a Marine he’d beaten senseless in a Georgia bar - he sliced through the zip-ties holding the doors together, poking his head out to get a lay of the situation.

He had to duck back in a split-second later, as a high-caliber bullet exploded the wooden panelling of the door beside his head. He hadn’t expected the cops to be so trigger-happy, not when there were a dozen-plus hostages in the bank whom the LSPD nominally had a duty to serve & protect.

He’d seen enough, though. A handful of police cruisers, officers with handguns and Kevlar vests. No N.O.O.S.E., no helos, but those were only a matter of time. Fine by him.

“You got a minigun right, Ryan?” asked Dooley, fiddling with his own rifle.

“I do.”

“Take out the cars.”

Haywood unslung his duffel bag long enough to withdraw the monstrosity he was packing within. Technically it was an ‘ _electric cannon_ ’, and was really meant to be affixed to helicopters and gunboats rather than touted about by individual soldiers. Even Second Amendment-loving America hadn’t been comfortable legalizing this particular piece of hardware for civilian ownership.

Which is why the LCPD would never, _ever_ see it coming.

“Everyone… back-”

Haywood didn’t finish his sentence before the barrel had finished spooling up, and suddenly what could only be called a _river_ of bullets was rushing from the muzzle. The doors to the bank weren’t so much blown open as they were _blown to pieces_ , literally disintegrating as a hundred bullets a second cut through them like a shōji wall.

The nearest police cruiser was annihilated in a few frenzied heartbeats, the bullets puncturing the fuel tank and creating a pretty little inferno a second later. The local cops had the good sense to fall back at that, retreating from the killing field that had appeared at the intersection in front of the Pacific Standard Bank.

“ _Okay Ryan, push forward_ …”

* * *

“Okay Ryan, push forward.”

Dooley was standing right next to Haywood, but he really needed to use the walkie-talkies and earpieces to communicate. No way his voice was carrying over the sound of bullets. The Vagabond’s torrent tore up cars, pavement and nearby storefronts, while the casings left in its wake created a veritable slipping hazard.

They exited the bank in a sloppy diamond formation, Haywood providing suppressive fire, the rest of them using their suddenly-puny assault rifles. Even with his shades on it took Dooley a few seconds to adjust to the glare of the Sun at high-noon, causing him to pause momentarily, Free and Jones taking up the slack in his output of murders.

They pushed east, down Vinewood Boulevard, four juggernauts in the City of Saints. Despite Haywood’s mini-gun the rifled trio were the ones racking up the kills, if only because they could actually _aim_ with their cabines. Dooley felt his rifle snap back into his shoulder as he shot down another cop. They had a massive advantage over the boys in blue, the latter being armed only with pistols, barely effective at the distance they were being gunned down at. Dooley’s carbine was effective at easily three times the range, and his bullets were the steel-tipped, armor-piercing sort. It was grossly unfair.

But so was fucking life.

Two cruisers which had been blockading east-west traffic on Vinewood evaporated in the hail of bullets from Haywood’s minigun, littering the road with broken glass and metal and bodies. Dooley lead the way across the street, towards a small alley on the south side, between a high-end apartment complex and a store that sold overpriced T-shirts to tourists. A handful of cops raced out of the alley, presumably running towards the sounds of gunfire, only to be greeted with an otherworldly barrage upon their exit. Dooley, Jones and Free overlapped their fields of fire, flooding the alley with bullets.

Yeah, life was _really_ fucking unfair. He just made sure to be on the right side of luck.

* * *

“ _I’m taking bullets_!”

Haywood’s voice filled Jones’ ear, causing him to pivot 180 degrees.

“I’m coming back, I’m coming back!” he shouted in reply, cursing himself as he ran. Coordination had never been their strongest suit, and their formation had drifted apart before reaching the mouth of the alley, with Haywood - lugging both the minigun and half the cash haul - falling behind. _Stupid_ fucking _idiot_.

There were a dozen uniformed bodies lying at the entrance to the alley, but he barely noticed them, waving Haywood past him as the Vagabond rounded the corner. The _Great Gatsby_ -era brickworks were already exploding as the cops opened fire, but Jones channeled his anger into a deadly precision, his rifle suddenly weighing nothing in his arms.

“Gav, get the right, get the right, get the right!” 

Free swung around so the two men were stood back-to-back, rifles firing _staccato_ at whichever unfortunate _dumbass_ happened to poke his head out. Neither were exceptional marksmen, but good enough really _was_ good enough when you were burning through mags as fast as they were. The thunderous _crescendo_ of Haywood’s minigun filled the alley behind them, turning their military-grade carbines into pea-shooters in comparison.

“We’re clear behind for now,” Jones shouted, as Dooley linked up with Free. “I’m moving up with Ryan,” he called out, while Dooley positioned himself to cover their six. Jones hugged the western wall as he raced down the alley, positioning himself dangerously close to the outer edge of Haywood’s cone of fire. Rounds from the minigun were shattering concrete and puncturing dumpsters, creating a deathly breeze down the alley as the pack raced along their path of destruction.

Jones ducked behind a dumpster long enough to pull out his own minigun, snapping together the few disassembled pieces from his duffel bag. What had been a river of bullets became a tsunami, two hundred rounds a second flying into the police cruisers at the far end of the alley. Any officer with exposed skin was soon disintegrated into a pool of blood and bone, but most were simply cowed by the hailstorm, crouching behind concrete slabs and praying to every god in the heavens.

An LCPD helicopter - one of the tired Bell 206s that were the workhorses of the fleet - had the misfortune of crossing their horizon. At his altitude the pilot had no doubt considered himself safe, but the high-powered rounds tore through the helicopter’s tail rotor in a matter of seconds. The flaming wreck careened downwards at a sickening pace - looking like a giant child’s toy that had been suddenly dropped - before crashing into the roof of several housing units. The building - constructed to the latest earthquake codes - was able to withstand the sudden mass dropped upon it, but the flames from the wrecked helo were already beginning to spread.

Jones took in the inferno they’d unleashed for a few seconds, eyes drifting as Dooley and Haywood made their way to the rendezvous point. For the first time in what felt like forever he couldn’t hear any bullets, just a ringing in his ears and the crackling of flames. Sirens surrounded him from every direction, buffeting him like the IMAX Private Theatre™ he would soon be able to afford.

His heart quickened. The GO Postal building where they’d stored the motorcycles - the first leg of their escape proper - was in sight.

He downed a second helicopter with a few second’s fire, and continued sprinting.

* * *

“Only shoot if you fall off,” Jones repeated to him, as he clawed about in his pockets for the key.

Free said nothing, though he couldn’t help his eyes from wandering over to the nearest corpse. One cop - one, _entirely solitary_ cop - had had the misfortune of standing in the alley between them and their bikes. Dooley had exploded his head with barely a moment’s pause, positively shattering the skull. The cop had fallen over, lifeless, the blood from his head now filling the cracks of the masonry like sanguine caulk.

Because Free didn’t have enough reasons to think about his own mortality right now.

“Do me well, bike,” Free murmured as if in prayer, saddling himself on the motorcycle they’d forcefully-repossessed from the Lost MC. He’d never been one for bikes. If Lawrence of Arabia could die on a bike in bloody _Dorset_ , what hope did _he_ honestly have?

...And the Vagabond was munching on some dollar-store snacks. Because of _course_ he would still have an appetite at a time like this...

Free checked his phone, swiping to the little blue icon where their dingy was supposed to be stored. The rest of the crew was arguing over directions, but he’d just follow the pack. They were diverting from Lester’s plan right now, and the fat pleb never took well to losing control.

But Lester was a tosser, so Free didn’t give their rebellion much thought.

The motorcycles roared to life in near-unison, powerful American beasts intended more for show than finesse. Free generally hated them - preferring the slick sports bikes of Japan or Germany if he absolutely _had_ to ride one - but it hadn’t been his call, so with the Harleys they were stuck.

Dooley tore out of the alley before the rest of them, the sounds of sirens already closing in. Free revved the accelerator and followed suit, leaning forward as much as the _incredibly awkward_ design of the cruiser bike allowed. He didn’t like how it handled, didn’t like how it felt, and bloody well _hated_ how exposed it left them all.

He was, understandably, fairly certain this ride would end in his death. In retrospect, he probably should’ve Skyped mum and dad one last time before they’d started this.

Free followed Jones, who was following Dooley, rocketing down the sidewalks as they began their great escape. The sidewalks were mercifully clear of pedestrian traffic, and the bulky police cruisers were ill-suited to swerving off the road.

They blew past a police checkpoint. The wind was on his face, crisp, almost stinging. They followed _that_ with a sweeping left turn, narrowly dodging a four-door sedan. Over the walkie-talkies Free heard the pack repositioning itself, slowing up to keep him from falling too far behind. Haywood and Jones drifted off the sides of the paved road, making it all-the-harder for the police cruisers to intercept them as they barreled towards the city limits.

He made a hard ninety-degree turn to the left, swinging onto a dirt road towards Raton Canyon. One of the cops - a state trooper, judging by the livery - cursed vividly as his car failed to make the turn.

“Fuckin... _...aggot_!”

Free snorted and revved the accelerator. “He called me a _maggot_ ,” Free said, conveying the cop’s cuss over their radio link. “At least I hope it started with an _m_.”

That earned him a few chuckles from Dooley and Haywood. Adrenaline was making them giddy, almost euphoric. Free laughed along with them.

Perhaps they really _were_ crazy enough for this to work.

* * *

“Cops ahead, _cops ahead_!” Haywood called out, from his position at the tip of the spear.

He had to admit that even he, The Vagabond, did not want to be here. They were on a switchback dirt road, with no guardrails, no room to maneuver, and the LSPD had apparently managed to find a way to intercept them. A blue-and-white helicopter was descending _fucking majestically_ into the canyon, swooping through the valley like an angel of death as a police gunner opened fire on his crew.

“We do _not_ have a lot of maneuver room here.”

He dodged one cruiser, then an SUV, narrowly avoiding the latter by hugging close to the cliff wall. The one advantage the bikes had here was the fact that they could slip past the bulkier and clumsier police cruisers, make turns those behemoths could not. He glanced over his shoulder to-

-the front of his bike clipped the hood of a police SUV, sending him flying over the handlebars. “I’m down!” he was yelling into his radio mic, before he’d even rolled to a stop.

The sound of automatic gunfire soon filled his ears as Jones found his favorite SMG, a Mini Uzi modified with a 30-round magazine. By the time he was dusting himself off Jones had two more notches in his belt, the staccato of his pistol having shattered the SUV’s windshield and eviscerated the officers within. Haywood knew an armor-piercing round would’ve gotten the job done more efficiently, but Jones’ preferred hollow points were almost as effective and _much_ more demonstrative.

“Get on your bike, please!” the Jersey Devil cried out, the sounds of sirens audible both in the air and over the radio.

Haywood hefted his bike upward and jumped back on it, pausing only momentarily to confirm that the duffel bag of cash was still strapped tightly across his chest. He owed his crew his life, not for the first time and probably not for the last.

He hated being in debt.

* * *

Unbeknownst to any of them, the opportunity to balance the debt loads came barely a minute later.

Free swore with every curse word in his Anglo-American dictionary as Jones’ Uzi roared to life. They were _not supposed to be shooting here_. He didn’t pretend to be a CQC expert like the rest of them were, but he had enough tactical smarts to know that this was a _very bad position for a gunfight_. Their adversaries were coming at them head-on, with the benefit of numbers and a natural chokepoint. The police helicopters could snipe at them from the side like a carnival shooting gallery. One or two lucky bullets would knock their bikes out of commission - or worse - leaving them bleeding out in one of America’s uglier national parks. Something was going to go wrong, he knew.

Which wasn’t reassuring in the slightest when something _did_ go wrong.

It was a simple accident. A Sheriff’s cruiser had swung wide, causing him to careen into the door and off his bike. The breath was knocked from his lungs entirely, and he was left gasping for air on the ground, barely able to see, to _think_.

He heard the cruiser door open, saw a leg emerge from it. He could barely move, but the adrenaline in his veins gave him the strength to roll over, even as every muscle in his body cried out for oxygen. He tucked his head in.

He heard the gunshots even over the sirens and the screams.

The cop was standing over him, firing down like he was a fish in a barrel. Even with the blacker-than-black-ops armor he was wearing the pain was almost unbearable. Each bullet felt like his lungs were being stomped on, the reverberations rolling him from his skull to his toes. His bones cracked. He couldn’t breathe. He needed to get his gun - whatever sidearm he had strapped to his hip, he could barely think or care. He rolled so he’d have a chance at reaching for it before he died.

And then he was run over by a motorcycle.

Somehow, amidst all the pain, it _still_ bloody hurt. A Michelin tire ran over his foot, leg, hip - and then the American monstrosity of metal collided into the cop standing over him.

Adrenaline propelled him upright, and he reached for his pistol, but the cop was already dead - Haywood and Jones were sweeping the area around them in a ballistic flanking maneuver. The cop who’d been shooting him had been torn apart, a half-dozen bullets striking his torso from both directions.

“ _You’re okay, you’re okay_!” Haywood was screaming into his earpiece, as Free steadied himself against the cruiser. Bad move - the cruiser’s trunk was slick with blood, and he barely caught himself from falling over again.

“I can’t… I can’t-” His head was throbbing, his breaths short, his eyes and ears overloaded...

“Get on a bike!” Jones screamed, as he swapped out the mags for his Uzi. “There’s choppers right above us. _Right above us_.”

“You’re okay,” repeated Haywood, a lifeline of reassurance as chaos swamped Free’s mind.

He managed to right his bike, squinting as the helicopters circling overhead kicked up a vortex of dust and dirt. Jones was firing towards them, but his Uzi had neither the range nor the punch to smash their armored underbellies. By the time Free had caught up with the pack they were repeating the rescue op again, Haywood firing wildly from his SMG as Dooley recovered from a collision.

He un-thought his earlier beliefs. They were _definitely_ going to die on this cliff.

* * *

“ _Shut the fuck up_ ,” Jones yelled, silencing the cross-talk with Jersey assertiveness. “We’re almost at the dingy. It’s right here, it’s right here. We need to get off, shoot like _fucking_ crazy, kill everyone around us, and then someone _get in_.”

That had all sounded a lot more sensible back in the war room.

Haywood swerved his bike off the dirt path, sliding onto the loose sand by the edge of the embankment. He could see two cruisers in his rear-view mirror and a helicopter circling overhead, but he barely had time to think about those. “I’m switching to my minigun,” he called out, intending to provide suppressive fire while they made their way to the dingy.

Easier said than done.

His duffel bag had become a complete mess during their escape, and the pieces of the minigun - disassembled so he could actually ride a motorcycle while carrying it - were all over the place, along with the components for a dozen-odd other guns, bombs and assorted criminal accessories. There was more than a bit of blood on everything, too, though most of it wasn’t his.

“What am I doing?” Haywood yelled at himself, half-sprinting down the river so he could put some rocks and a pine tree between him and the bullets of law enforcement. “Get the minigun out!”

If any of his companions had something to say about the Vagabond yelling at himself, they’d learned to keep it to themselves.

A few dozen yards down the riverbank, Haywood spotted Jones doubling-back, audibly swearing even without the radio link. “Everyone get in!” he barked to Dooley and Free, snapping his submachine gun into a firing position. “Ryan, I’m covering you!”

Haywood had managed to slap his minigun together in the few second’s respite he’d found, and the two of them made short work of the nearest police officers. Haywood began a mad sprint across the exposed beach to Jones, zigging and zagging with wanton disregard for the danger of running _directly_ into Jones’ line-of-fire. Jones was nowhere near a good enough shot to be certain of his accuracy, but they didn’t have much in the way of options. The bullets from Jones’ Uzi flew over _both_ of Haywood’s shoulders, shooting into dense foliage for unknowable results.

“Gavin and I are in the dinghy _get in_!” yelled Dooley, barely audible over the sound of gunfire and helicopter rotors.

Haywood glanced up at the last of the helos circling overhead. His minigun spooled to life.

* * *

They’d had to swim to the dinghy.

For some reason, that had exhausted Free beyond words. He’d already overtaxed his adrenal gland to the point where his veins were probably literally disintegrating from the acidity of the hormones. He’d been yelled at. Shot at. Just plain _shot_. Run over by a bloody American motorcycle.

And now he had to swim.

They only had to swim a few meters to the boat, but it may as well have been crossing the English Channel. He was carrying at least thirty kilos of arms and armor - none of them buoyant in the slightest - and as soon as he set foot in the creek he felt the water tugging him downwards. It wasn’t more than a few meters deep but it took an Olympian, nay _Herculean_ effort to keep his head above-water.

A bullet hit the water a few feet from his head, creating a small spray. That kept him kicking.

Dooley made it to the boat first, and mercifully he had the strength to haul Free in with him. Free rolled over the edge of the dinghy with the grace of a fish out of water, staring at the sky for the few seconds it took to catch his breath. Sirens, gunfire and helicopters filled his ears.

The orchestra of his life.

He reached for his gun and began firing backwards, deafening himself as he shot a helicopter gunner from fifty yards. He ejected his magazine, watching - vaguely hypnotized - as the cop toppled out of the chopper, his corpse landing right where river met beach. From this distance, he couldn’t make out any blood, but he had no doubt that it was there. One more funeral in his wake.

Jones pulled himself over the edge of the dinghy, having taken it upon himself to be the last man out. As soon as he was in, he was shouting.

* * *

“ _Gogogogogogogo!”_

Jones screamed, and Dooley slammed the throttle as far forward as it would go. He knew what he was doing. This was a rigid-hulled inflatable Zodiac, the same thing they’d used for a half-dozen other gigs. He’d had something similar to it growing up, and he’d spent days just criss-crossing Massachusetts Bay, familiarizing himself with the handling of boats and the whims of the waters. They hadn’t planned who would pilot the boat out, but the Fates had been generous today.

“ _Everything dies_!” Haywood shouted, and three SMGs alit as one, thunderous even over the slapping of the hull on the water. There was barely a chance in hell of hitting anything, Dooley knew, but like _hell_ was he going to discourage them.

“Just keep shooting, boys!” Jones continued. A police boat a dozen yards out was raked with gunfire, rendering it unseaworthy in seconds.

Dooley glanced at his map. “There’s the exit…. Right there!” A small line on the screen, marking where the waters of the United States of America ended and the United Mexican States began. It was an arbitrary line, a shared illusion, but it was also their freedom. There wasn’t a Mexican vessel on the horizon, and the American boats couldn’t follow them there. Certainly not with the current state of the bilateral relationship being what it was.

“Don’t crash the boat, Jeremy,” Haywood half-pleaded, half-threatened. They’d surveilled the area before. As soon as they passed the bridge there was nothing for them to hit. No sandbanks. No buoys.

“I’m not going to. I’m going to _drive us out of here_.”

The Zodiac slammed into a large wave, and Dooley ducked on instinct, squinting his eyes shut to keep the saltwater out. When he stood upright, the guns were silent. The little blue dot on the map was now firmly in the territorial waters of Baja California.

He glanced over his shoulder, almost not believing it. But, sure enough, the LCPD boats had swept to a stop, the helicopters were hovering in position, as if trapped by an invisible net in the sky.

Another wave crashed over over their bow, and they began screaming as one.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to take as little artistic license as possible, apart from switching the bikes used from being Ductati knock-offs to Harley Davidson knock-offs (because I got the idea that they were Harleys stuck in my head early on), and de-fictionalizing a few of the brands. (Oh, and them escaping to Mexico, but I needed _something_ to explain the in-game ending). The action and dialogue adheres as closely to the video as I could make it (minus the jokes about the P &Qs, unfortunately).
> 
> Actually my first novelization attempt, so hopefully you enjoyed it. If you liked it, have feedback, or can think of other videos which would make enjoyable novels, please leave a comment! They can seriously make my day.


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